


Everybody's House Is Haunted

by DisasterJones (orphan_account)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Songfic, Vomiting, Whatever the fuck, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:36:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9941633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DisasterJones
Summary: lyrics bolded and italicized from"Ghost" by Rob Cantor





	

**_Does anybody else see the ghost standing at my door?_ **

  
It feels like coals, but not in the way anyone ever thinks of coals. They’re not comforting, reminiscent of a warm summer night. They’re not something to lovingly stoke as you talk jovially with friends.

They’re the kind of coals that singe when you get too close, that crackle and spark and sizzle unexpectedly. They’re the coals the bitterly belch black smoke in your face and follow you no matter where you sit. They’re the kind of coals that don’t die down after an argument, after The Nothing, after you’ve exhausted your well of tears trying to douse them.  
  


**_Waiting in the dark like a lion, what’s he waiting for?_ **

  
The coals bubble something up like lava, and then Seán is spitting up bile and semitransparent chunks of something he can’t describe, probably stomach lining, who knows, who cares, the point is it’s all over the fucking desk now and there’s nothing to clean it up with in the immediate vicinity.

He’d blame it on alcohol if he’d had any.

He might even blame it on the flu if he were sick.

But he won’t admit it for what it is.

**_We talk about it like it’s better, but this will never go away_ **

  
He hiccups and burps uncomfortably, esophagus restricting and threatening to close entirely, and for a moment he feels a wash of relief because, wouldn’t that make everything so much easier? But the moment passes and he settles and all he can think about is how pitiful this must look.

Him, sitting in his chair, in clothes he hasn’t washed in weeks, surrounded by a puddle of his own sick leaking into his hat, the speakers on the desk the various pens and gadgets, everything. It permeated every space so fast, he barely realizes it nearly dripping off the edge.

He tries to make a quick dash for a towel, napkins, a sock he didn’t care about, anything that would work, but every inch feels like a mile. The time between steps feels like eternity. His body barely feels like it moves with him when he does, snapping to and fro with his consciousness, rubberbanding in his mind. It might be only a few moments and motions to grab the towel from his bed, but he swears he’s aged 20 years.

The words continually slash at his brain, and at this point he doesn’t remember whose words they were. It’s so hard to know what’s real anymore.

  
“Stop.”

“Leave.”

“Get away.”

  
_But there’s only so far to go_ , Seán muses as he works his way sluggishly back to the desk, his face crumpling with frustration as he watches a steady stream of vomit puddle onto the carpet. A pang of uselessness hits him like a ball peen hammer to the kneecaps and he’s doubling over, half out of necessity and half out of shame. On his hands and knees, tears thread the lining of his eyes, bouncing on his lashes and fogging his vision.

Against his better judgment he lets his mind wander. He lets it go to the obvious mistakes he’s made, and without missing a beat it jumps to the swirling concoction of self-destructive thoughts.  
  


**_Cause he don’t wanna live and he don’t wanna die_ **

  
It puddles and shifts and it sinks in his stomach like a weight and he can’t help but hate himself a little more, until that weight ejects itself all over his hands, coating his arms and floor in another puddle of pinkish orange.

He sobs for a minute, cursing under his breath and sniffling hard through his nose, trying to ignore the amount of mucous he feels all over his upper lip. His shoulders are heavy and his spine feels like it could break any minute, but he can’t bring himself to move. Tears fall freely now, rushing over his cheeks and onto his shirt, clipping his breaths into short, stuttering breaths that all taste rotten, and he tries not to gag on himself. The Nothing creeps in, uselessness striking him harder this time, and for a moment he considers just laying down in his vomit.

**_  
He don’t wanna lose and he don’t wanna try_ **

  
He redoubles his efforts, shoulders shuddering as he cries, but insistently he presses the towel into the carpet, sopping up the mess. His instincts are to try to run back. Try to fix what he broke. Try to undo the mess he made. But as he stares into his carpet at the steady stain, realization is a slow and steady crawl over him.

There will always be a mess. This will always be his mess. There’s evidence to show he’s not the good person everyone said he was. And as much as he tries to be good, he’s known for a while - always cleaning up his own disasters - that sometimes it takes other people a long time to realize.

Sometimes you need to leave the mess to make them understand.

He sighs in defeat, The Nothing puppeting him like a toy and easing him down onto the towel, trapping his lips shut and his mind closed, laughing in his head as his conscious mind protests the vomit while the rest of him forfeits beneath the weight.  _ They’ll leave in their own time _ , he reasons to himself, teary eyes fluttering shut against the sticky fibers, _once they figure it out_.

**_  
He don’t wanna stay but he don’t wanna leave tonight_ **

 


End file.
